Glass Girl
by 2angelgoats
Summary: Cassie has always been delicate - fragile yet beautiful; a girl made of glass. Sid wanted, needed her to get better. But now that she has, is she still the girl he fell in love with? And, perversely, is he beginning to miss the glass girl? Sucked into a dark fantasy, Sid is obsessed with an illusion. And if he has to tear Cassie apart to find it, then maybe - just maybe - he will.
1. Prologue

**Hi! So, I haven't been on this website for a** ** _long_** **time, and this is the first story I've ever published about Skins. I adore Cassie to pieces, Sid too; in fact, I love all of the characters, especially those from Generation 1. I'm looking forward to writing about Skins as I feel that it, as a TV show, offers more scope for the author to provide their own interpretation in prose, rather than trying to mimic the way the original author wrote. I would really appreciate reviews - be they positive or negative - so please leave those if you have anything to say, and favourites / follows would be lovely too. This little prologue can be skipped if you'd like to: it's basically supposed to be a transcript of Cassie's thoughts as a narrator through the second part of** ** _Series 2: Cassie_** **and all of** ** _Series 2: Everyone._** **Skip straight to Chapter One if you want to get straight to the (arguably) non-canon!**

She was not thinking. She hadn't thought, really thought, for a long time. Thinking _hurt._

She was sorry.

She told him that over and over again those first few days. She lay in the bed - the bed of a man, a kind man, but a man she didn't know - and she whispered _I'm sorry_ into her pillow. Of course, whispering wasn't enough. Even if she had screamed, the screams of a girl in New York City can't be heard by a boy in Bristol.

Perhaps he would hear her in his dreams. Dreams had different rules, didn't they?

Cassie's own dreams were empty for those few days. She slipped in and out of sleep, in and out of blackness; long, painful, empty periods of hollow and unplaced pain alternating with snatched moments of light. Moments where she could move, if only for the sake of moving, movements where the mattress felt real underneath her fingers. Moments where she could whisper her rushed, pointless apologies. Moments that felt a little like those days back when alcohol had been for fun; somewhere near consciousness, head pounding. She'd always taken drink well but being thin changed that. Now there wasn't enough of her to hold the drug in - her temples had ached with too-bright fantasies and her blood had danced in her veins.

When she woke the kind man was yet kinder. The world was bright and full. That hurt sometimes - although it was better than empty. And he took her places and showed her things and smiled and kissed her cheek and they danced and laughed and it was a bit like happy was supposed to be, she thought. Only happy wasn't _really_ about smiling and kissing and dancing and laughing was it? Happy wasn't that simple.

She remembered when she had been at her worst. She remembered how beautiful she had been, then. So thin - collarbones that you could write with if you dipped them in ink, a thigh gap, a stomach like glass, so fragile, so flat. Beauty was happiness, wasn't it? And there had been no smiles when she'd been ill. No kissing, or dances, or laughter. She thought that that had been happiness, she was almost sure it had.

But other people disagreed. And at the end of it all Cassie didn't really think she qualified as an expert on happiness.

When the kind man left she cried. He had been good to her. That was probably why she hadn't fallen in love with him - she had expected to, even hoped she would. A distraction, even a hopeless one, would have been welcome. She would have liked to felt sick and sad and dizzy about something else than a stupid, _stupid_ boy. (A stupid, stupid boy who had done nothing wrong this time, said that rational part in the back of her brain, only she had gotten very good at ignoring that part.)

The point was that being cared for, supported, protected, loved (albeit platonically), didn't seem to be appealing to her. The boy (and even now she could not bear to think of his name. It was so central to his character - reminded her so irrevocably of everything, everything he had ever said, done, worn, held, touched, hated, loved) had not cared for her at first. She'd been a tool. A distraction. She'd hated that. And then he'd fallen in love with her and she was conveniently gone, going, fucking it all up again. She needed to wallow in the depressing nature of her unrequited passion for a little white, before she allowed herself to be chased.

That was the way the game went. And she didn't want to play that game with the kind man. Which was why maybe, in some obscure and super-moral way, it was good that he was gone.

That didn't stop Cassie from crying and starving herself. Nothing ever did, really. (With the possible exception of the boy. Only she wasn't supposed to be thinking about him.)

 _I'm sorry_ , she whispered again, as she threw the food she had bought herself for that night into the bin. What was she apologising for now, anyway? Running away? Getting ill again? Missing the kind man as much as she did - maybe even more than she missed the boy, sometimes. _Sometimes._ She had to admit that she missed the boy an awful lot... Momentarily she thought about the postcard. She hadn't expected him to come - the boy never went after what he wanted, did he? But still, it hurt her in some deep, irrational way, that he had not changed for her. She had changed for him, hadn't she? She had tried her very hardest to get better. To stop running.

Only then there was Chris. And that was even more painful.

She really, really, really could not think about Chris.

Most of the time she could not even think about Jal, or how good she had been to her, or the tiny baby that blossomed in her stomach - the only remnant of Chris that there was left in this world now. Cassie had hoped pointlessly, when hope was still bearable, that Jal might keep the child. And it _was_ a pointless hope - by definition, because in a stupid and colourless world like this, _all_ hope was pointless - and also simply because she knew Jal, and she knew that Jal was clever, and clever teenagers did not choose to raise children.

She herself would probably never be able to raise a family. Too thin. Too broken. Her periods were spotty now. She knew that, and she didn't mind, because although she liked children she had never held any particularly strong affinity to the notion of being a mother.

Would the boy have wanted them?

Did he even think that far into the future?

Did he have any sort of brain at all?

She was being cruel, she knew that. She was being unfair. In a different world he could have been of respectable intelligence, smart, even, but the way he had lived, the way others had lived, meant that he had turned out utterly useless in most senses of the world - which was exactly why she loved him. She knew that and hated it. She would have liked to have had an attraction to someone mysterious, intelligent, someone more like herself. Tony was mysterious and intelligent - Cassie would have liked to have loved him, even if it would have been as hopelessly unrequited as she knew it would. Or his sister, Elizabeth. Effy. She was beautiful. Oh, to have loved her - or at least to have fucked her.

She knew she was a damned good fuck and she'd have bet anything - not that she had much to bet - that Effy was, too.

You can see from these thoughts, carelessly chosen, amalgamated into a pointless sample of self-pity, self-loathing, and just plain old pity and loathing, that she was not healthy, this girl, alone in New York, model-thin and model-pretty and model-drugged up. She was not healthy at all, which, in a perverse sort of way, was her favourite thing about herself. It may seem natural to assume that this was the sort of poor health so central to her character that it could never be cured it all; but if you _did_ assume that, you would be wrong, because the next at all interesting that happened in her story was as simple as this: She got better.

She did not know quite how it happened, or why. But much sooner than she had previously deemed possible, she had a job, and a flat, and a post-card shaped hope, and a woman called Adela who occasionally met her for coffee. (Even before the miracle that was her recovery, coffee had been one of the few things that she could stomach. Above and beyond anything else, it stopped you being hungry.) Adela was not the sort of person she would ever even consider confiding in, but she did have a lot of sex, and a lot of angst, and a lot of parties, and it made Cassie happy to hear about these things in an unapologetic New York accent from the cherry-red lips of someone who should, arguably, have been a lot wiser than her, given the age gap. The job gave her money, and somehow, one day, coffee was accompanied by cake. Cake became more regular.

One day, she ordered a take-away. Fat, greasy chips (the boy had liked those. Irrelevant, but the sort of thing she thought about, these days) and chunks of slimy meat in thick, congealing gravy. It was not tasty food. It was not clever food. But for some reason, the fancy struck her to eat unhealthy, fattening, tacky, disgusting food and to never look back.

That last sentence was hyperbole. She looked back quite a lot.

But the point was that looking back did not stop her from moving forward, and soon she got to the point where she ate every night, worked every day, even did other things - healthy, human things, like reading books, and going to films, and making friends, and cleaning her flat. She got to the point where she did not absent-mindedly look out of windows during work time. Instead, she smiled with lips that were as cherry-red as those of Adela, and took orders with a lively countenance and a sugary voice. She did not look out of windows, and she did not see Sidney Jenkins standing outside hers, with her image in his hands and in his head and printed all over every part of his memory by pale, fragile hands.

 **Sorry that this was so short! I'll attempt to make the next chapters longer, and less waffly. I also really need to finish that fanfiction that I've had going for simply ages and haven't got further than a couple of chapters, mainly due to having written absolutely no solid plot. I don't want to make this go down the same route. I plan for this to be somewhere nearing Acceptable, hopefully even Exceeds Expectation in time ;) (Excuse the Harry Potter reference.) Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.**

 **So I suppose this is my reintroduction to this website. Expect Cassie, lots of her. Expect Sid. Expect Naomily. (What can I say? I'm human.) Expect ALL Series 1 / 2 characters (even 3 when I get round to watching it), because they are beautiful. Oh, and PLEASE don't hesitate to contact me if you'd like me to read any of your own writing :)**

 **Anyway. Goodbye.**


	2. Windows

**Okay, here we go! I hope you enjoy this!**

Sid had a headache and he was not currently experiencing sexual pleasure.

For some reason these two facts had amalgamated in his head, and he found himself at the point where he was convinced that solving one of these problems would immediately correct the other. _If only this plane could land so I could go find Cass, we could have sex, because somehow that's how it would work_ , _and then I wouldn't have a headache anymore_. Or, more worryingly, _If only I didn't have this stupid headache, I would - be having sex?_

He wasn't really sure how it was supposed to be working out, but the issue wasn't his poor logic. The issue was that he had a headache, and he was not currently experiencing sexual pleasure.

Of course, if Sid had not been so tragically incapacitated, he would have realised that his linking of the two concepts was not completely invalid. He had a headache because he was tired and depressed and he was not currently experiencing sexual pleasure because he was not in a place where experiencing sexual pleasure was appropriate. He was tired and depressed and in a place where experiencing sexual pleasure was inappropriate because he was in the middle of a long plane journey, and he was in the middle of a long plane journey because _stupid_ Chris had died and _stupid_ Cassie had fucked up again and fucking _run away_ to the fucking _US of fucking A._

Sid was angry.

One could argue that his rage was justified. Not only was he squashed in next to a bratty, wailing toddler; not only did he have a head-ache; not only had it been weeks upon weeks since he had last seen the love of his life; not only had one of his closest friends gone and _died;_ not only did he have no chance of finding Cassie _;_ not only was he on an aeroplane, one of the many things he detested; not only would he probably not see anyone else he even remotely cared about it for at _least_ another year, if not forever, but none of these things were his fault.

He had done nothing to justify this. He had been kind and loving to his girlfriend, his girlfriend who had undoubtably achieved perfect results in her A-levels, who had a beautiful life waiting for her back at home. He had been sympathetic to her many issues, the racing demons inside her head that he had never even bordered on understanding. He had made up with Tony, sorted things out with Michelle, worked hard (despite his natural predisposition to eat icecream and play video games when he should have been studying) and managed to secure passable grades in his exams. When Chris had died, he would have been kind and loving and sympathetic all over again. He would have held her and wiped her tears away with the simple, unconditional, puppy-like love that she had seemed to accept so readily.

Had she simply decided that that was not enough for her anymore? That the death of her friend merited more sophisticated comforts than Sid's traditional remedy of - well - listening? And saying, 'Life's shit, Cass. I love you. Let's have sex.' Now that he thought about it, she probably had. She was probably living happily in some sophisticated penthouse flat - working as a style journalist, or a model, or an accessory on the arm of a rich, successful businessman. A glamorous, irrevocably feminine, occupation, whatever the particulars were. She was probably eating. She probably only drank red wine. She probably went to restaurants and had sensual sex, the sort they make movies about that aren't porn movies, and did all sorts of things - and - and - oh, he didn't know. He sort of saw America as this bubble where people went and got rich. But the question was much bigger than his unrealistic nightmare. The question was simple.

Had she forgotten about him altogether? Was _I'll always love you, Sid_ just another of her many games and tricks, the sort she usually didn't even realise she was playing?

Sid did not know.

Sid did not want to know.

But she had sent him the postcard, so some part of her must have regretted leaving, or at least regretted leaving him. It was the postcard that he thought of as he left the plane, checked out his things, passed giggling tourists and people who wore sunglasses and carried bags that were surely too small for everything you had to take on an aeroplane. It was the postcard that he thought of as he walked the streets of New York, a bright and smiling girl depicted in the photograph in his hands; a fucked-up, broken, stupid, selfish, slutty, manipulative, unthinking, uncaring, cruel, cheap _bitch_ fixed in his head. (This was largely because of the headache and the sexual frustration. Sid loved Cassie and thought she was beautiful, special, one in a million, _lovely._ But he was also human. You must grant him this fault.)

No-one recognised her. They shook their heads, smiled sympathetically and gave him money. (Although this irritated him at the time, it would be very fortunate later.) Some attempted to give advice; this was largely pointless as a large percentage of them didn't speak English and the one who did tended to say stupid things about fish. Normally, Sid would at least have processed that properly, if not listened, but fish reminded him of Chris and being reminded of Chris was painful. Chris was not only dead, and by all rights a painful memory of his own, he was also the reason why Cassie was gone.

He stopped outside a diner, out of breath, out of hope. His feet hurt nearly as much as his head. Evening would soon approach, and although he had by this point collected enough money to stay in some sort of cheap, tacky hotel for one night - which was a miracle all of its own - that was only one night. How would he eat? Where would he stay the next night, and the night after that, and all the other nights he didn't find the bright and smiling girl / fucked-up, broken, stupid, selfish, slutty, manipulative, unthinking, uncaring, cruel, cheap bitch? Was this his life now? Could he somehow find a way to get home, should he fail? (And at this point he felt that there was no doubt that he would fail.)

He stared into space; a habit common to people in Sid's state of depression. At that point, space happened to be right in front of him, occupying the exact same spot as the diner in which - as fate would have it - Cassandra Ainsworth made her living _._ He took in the clean and food-laden table, the happy people drinking coffee and eating fries, the bright lettering spelling out the name: _Dinah's Diner_. A more thoughtful and cynical person would have reflected on just how likely Dinah was to have adopted a psuedonym for the purpose of the rhyme; Sid was not that person and so his attention rested exclusively on the waitresses coming and going inside the diner. One of these, of course, was Cassie.

It may surprise you, but Sid did not see her that day: well, he saw a pretty, blonde girl of reasonably healthy weight, with a smile from a lipgloss advert and eyes that seemed almost happy. He did not see Cassie. However, the mind works in mysterious ways, and so this was not the ending of Sid's quest. He had stood outside that diner, he had hoped, thought, imagined; its name was lodged in the back of his head. Unconsciously, he was already on his way to finding her.

Sid woke up in tears. He had not known that one could cry in dreams, but he had, whatever the general truth was, and his face was red and wet. In his dream he had visited a shop - he had not known quite why, or even what sort of shop it was - and tried to buy a silk scarf, but apparently it was dear to the owner of the shop, and he was palmed off with a little glass ornament he hadn't even wanted. On his way home he was hit by a bus - carrying a coffin, only again, he was still not sure why. He was fine, but the glass ornament was smashed, and now that it was all broken he wanted it so badly it hurt.

At that point he wanted more than anything to get out of the second-rate hotel bed, wash off the smell of piss and cigarettes, and search every single street in New York for a glimpse of Cassie. He imagined her now, not happy and prosperous as he had yesterday, but unemployed, perhaps even homeless. A glass girl, shattered under the pressure of the city. Perhaps she was working as a prostitute, perhaps she was still on drugs, perhaps she had not eaten in days and didn't have the money to even if she had wanted to. And though Sid's prospects were at that moment little better, he loved her, and he wanted to help her in any way that he could. So he didn't do the sensible thing (have a shower, thank the hotel people, spend the few dollars he had left on breakfast in a nearby diner). If he had, he might have found her sooner.

He bought a map, leaving him with exactly nothing in his wallet, and begin to cross off the streets he had visited - of which there weren't many, especially when he took into account the vastness of the map, the vastness of New York itself, the fact that he wasn't really thinking about travel, about living, about anything, the fact that she could be in a different place day by day...

But he tried not to think about those things. His task as he saw it might have been Herculean, but it was simple. _Go to a street you haven't been to yet. Look for Cassie. Cross it off on the map_. Alternatively: _Go to a street you haven't been to yet. Look for Cassie. Find her. Receive a bizarre stroke of luck in some way or another and find yourself in a perfectly desirable situation._ Only the rational part of his brain, the pessimistic part of his brain, was getting stronger, and that part knew that the chances of the latter happening were pretty much zilch. He envisioned a grainy, black and white future. Sleeping under bridges by night, pointlessly traipsing the streets of New York by day. Being arrested for vague charges every now and again. Glass ornaments and laughing, lovely girls fading from his mind, until Cassie was a distant memory and he was no longer quite sure what the torn and dirty photograph in his right hand meant, anyway, or why he had to walk so far every day, or whether it really was necessary to replace that pencil so he could cross off another insignificant street...

Thinking about this hurt, especially when he laid it next to one of his dreams of Cassie's future - be it the glamorous journalist / model / accessory or the sick and drugged up prostitute, each was equally harmful. He tried to concentrate on the task at hand: finding her. Which was, even for the hopeful part of Sid, beginning to look impossible. Although he was still showing the photograph to everyone he passed, offers of money dried up, just as he realised how much he had been relying on them. Maybe it was the area. Maybe it was the time. Maybe it was Sod's law (soon to be renamed Sid's law, thought Sid). But Sidney Jenkins was broker than he had ever been in his life, and that was saying something.

It was despair that drove him back to the hotel, and luck that meant he passed _Dinah's Diner_ on his way. He had just enough money for coffee and a little bit of toast - sleeping arrangements had faded to the back of his head - which at least alleviated his hunger. He gave his order to the pretty brunette waitress. She smiled politely enough, although he couldn't help but notice that she didn't flirt, as she had done with pretty much every other customer - his boredom had reduced him to people-watching. He knew this was because he was dejected, rude, and had not had a shower, but it still plunged him even further into gloomy pit that his mind had turned into.

Possibly because he was dejected, rude, and had not had a shower, the pretty brunette waitress refused to deliver his order, so the pretty blonde waitress stepped up to the challenge. She brought the coffee and toast to the table, cherry lips, sugary smile, everything perfect. Sid did not look at her and if he had, he would not have recognised her - she was a pretty blonde waitress, which Cassie was not. Cassie was a beautiful, dirty-blonde teenager. But Sid, for his part, had not changed much, and so the pretty blonde waitress recognised him, and laughed with shock and delight - she should have gasped, she realised, but the pretty blonde waitress was more of a laughter than a gasper.

"Sid!" He looked up and recognised her and nearly fell of his chair. (Sid was neither a laugher nor a gasper, but a faller-off-chairer.

"You're - Cassie?"

And Cassie beamed and said what, in his more positive dreams, she had opened with.

"Wow, Sid. I didn't think you'd come."

The sad thing was that the very reason Cassie had not opened with her trademark expression was that she did not really say wow anymore. And it was that word, escaping her mouth, that made her remember all the reasons she had left Bristol in the first place. All the reasons she was happy now - and at that moment it occurred to her that maybe Sidney Jenkins was not good for her.

The pretty blonde waitress gave him one last remnant of Cassandra Ainsworth - a butterfly kiss, just behind his ear. He felt the mark of her lips on his neck and remembered them doing all of the other things he'd loved them doing, sex being only one of them, kisses another small part of the whole pictures - the important thing was the way those lips, that kiss was part of her. A metaphor for her fatal flaw, the hamartia that was her tragically ephemeral nature. The nature of the Cassie he remembered. And it became obvious, to Sid, as she walked away, that that was not the same girl as the pretty blonde waitress who was so obviously leaving him behind.

That could have been a painful, poignant ending, but in truth that is not the way the story ends, and so I must go on telling it you for the sake of my integrity is a narrator. Because Cassie loved Sid. She always would. She was trying to leave him behind, but love is never quite as easy as that, and Sid was not quite as unintelligent as he is so fondly regarded to be. Love makes most people stupid, but in Sid's case it made him desperate, and, unlikely though it may seem, desperation can provoke some very good ideas.

As Cassie leaned over to kiss him, Sid reached out and gently pulled off the pendant that hung around her neck. Plain, almost ugly - the sort of thing Cassie would never wear unless it was absolutely necessary. He sipped his coffee and prised the necklace open. A key; the sort that would open a jewellery box. The sort that would be prized. The sort that would need to be returned if lost. And, true to Sid's suspicions, the locket also held a scrap of paper, lined with digits - a phone number, then an address.

Sid clenched the paper tight in his fist and felt as if he were drowning in a sea of hope.

 **oldandgray - Thankyou so much for your review! I really hope I live up to your expectations.**

 **Well, I hope you enjoyed this installment. See you soon :)**


	3. Mirrors

**Thankyou so much for your kind reviews, everyone!**

 **Cuthbert72 - As regards Sid's feelings for her when they first met, I think I agree to a degree - but I don't think he really knew or understood those feelings and I think that Cassie wouldn't think that because of her insecurities. As you can see I do plan to continue - but again, thankyou so much, it made me so happy to hear that from you, as I've read and enjoyed several of your stories.**

 **mynameislizzie - Naomily _is_ hard to beat ;) I'm currently nearly at the end of series 4; although I absolutely adored both generations I think Gen 1 will always be slightly closer to my heart. We'll see about Gen 3, haha. And thankyou so much!**

 **oldandgray - Thankyou! I was really worried about that aspect of it, so I'm glad it worked.**

 **I hope you all enjoy this chapter.**

Adela had just left, sobbing, face drenched in smudged make-up. (Cassie wondered why she even bothered to apply it; it was always ruined by six, if not earlier.) She watched her from the apartment window with a bored expression – it was sad, she thought, that their friendship had been reduced to a series of emotional exchanges over white wine / coffee / hot chocolate. She couldn't even remember what the last guy's name was at this point, but that didn't matter, as he would undoubtably have been replaced within 48 hours. That was the good thing about Adela. She always bounced back.

Cassie, on the other hand, couldn't afford to put herself in dangerous situations. Once hurt it took her a long time to lick her wounds – and she had worked far too hard to get herself to this state of health to let it all go over a chance.

Because that was all it was, she knew. A chance. Sid would undoubtably want to go back to Bristol; and although Cassie, or at least the current Cassie, ached to open that little envelope, to make up with Michelle, to see what Jal had done about the baby, she knew that she had too much to risk at that point. She had never had anything before and she had liked that because it meant she was free; now her own happiness trapped her.

Sometimes Cassie missed who she was before. She certainly missed her collarbones, but she was working past that, wasn't she? The important thing was to let go of the past. She had never been good at that, but she had to try, or what was the point of anything? Her fingers moved to the hollow of her neck. Of course he had taken the necklace, of _course_ – she was almost proud. Now all she had to do was sit and wait for the call. She dreaded the thought of rejecting him again. But the new Cassie was not allowed to be in love.

Before her recovery, she would have made herself a coffee at this point. Probably cried a little. Instead she set about cooking dinner – healthy food, but filling food. Vegetables in coloured sauce, wholemeal bread and butter, a glass of fruit smoothie. She didn't play with her food, but ate it slowly and carefully, savouring every mouthful. Finally the phone rang: Sid, of course. It had to be Sid.

The tones danced, whirred, beeped, sang, made all the noises that phones had used to do, back when Cassie was Cassie and the world was strange and shit. She tried to block them out. This new version of her was supposed to hear the same things as everyone else: and this new version of her was supposed to have forgotten about Sid, too, so she let it ring for a while before she succumbed.

First, she brushed her hair. It had used to be thin – lack of nutrition did that to you – but now it was full and shiny and glossy, and she loved that. It was one of the best things about eating. One hundred strokes – she got to sixty eight and the phone stopped ringing, giving her five minutes of peace before the music – and it _shouldn't be music_ – began again. Next, she had a shower, but he still didn't give up. By the time she allowed herself to press the receiver to her ear, she was almost proud of him.

"Cass." His voice was the same as ever.

"Sid." Hers wasn't.

"I – er, I love you? So, um, please don't do this?" She almost cried at that, but had to remind herself that new Cassie didn't cry. New Cassie was stronger than that.

"Don't do what?"

Oh, she was bad. She was ever so bad. His sigh was audible, and it felt like all the goodness and warmth and light she'd worked so hard to bring into her apartment had been blown out by that one tiny breath of air. _I'm sorry, Sid, I –_

"I need to meet you, Cass."

Her voice was a little sharper than she had intended it to be. "Well, you can't."

"I can. I've got to." A distinctly un-Sidlike note of childish triumph haunted his voice, she was overcome with the desire to laugh.

"Right." There was a pause; uncomfortable for her, but, she suspected, delicious for him. Her fingers flew to her collarbone, her mouth forming a round 'O'. She'd known he'd taken the pendant, but apparently there had been more layers to his cleverness than she'd thought. She awarded him a resigned sigh. "You need to give the necklace back."

She couldn't see him, but could practically hear his smile, and she felt a hollow ache in her chest that she wasn't used to. _Couldn't you have come before? When I needed you? But no, you come_ now, _and try to ruin everything I've worked so hard for..._ "Leave it at the diner. Ask for Adela Simpson. _Don't_ tell her who you are."

Another pause, this time so long she was worried there might be something wrong with the connection.

"Sid?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you do that for me, please?"

"Er, yeah, I – " And yet again, the line went quiet. She was just about to snap at him when he finally spoke; his voice quieter than usual. "Cass, are you alright?"

"... I'm fine."

"You don't sound like you." It was like being stabbed. _He really knows me, huh?_ It wasn't like she'd recently spoken to anyone she'd previously known, but she had a feeling most of them would be more pleased at the changes in her than worried. Of course, healthy was good, and Cassie was proud of herself, even on those days when she felt as if there was hardly any 'her' left. But Sid's concern made her think, made her miss her past self – her light-heartedness, her eccentricity. Once she got past the initial shock, it was almost... flattering.

"Well, it's been a long time since we saw each other," she mustered, knowing that the words were pathetic, knowing that her past self would have said something far cleverer.

 _Your past self was crazy, Cassie._

"Right. Yeah." He was utterly unconvinced. Could she have expected any better?

"I'm better now," she added brightly, smiling into the receiver - red lips, white teeth, it was a trademark Cassie smile but it had none of trademark Cassie in it, and now this sadness that he had always inspired in her was mounting further and further. He had ruined her before. He would ruin her again. She knew that much.

"That's good. That's really good."

How can two people who once loved each other – still do love each other, must always love each other – speak to one another like this?

"Goodbye, Sid." She let the silence hang in the receiver for a moment; imagining the futile movement of his lips as he searched for words he'd never find. Then she hung up. She'd written her address in the pendant, but she was sure he wouldn't come – why would he, when she'd made it so clear she didn't want him? He'd just have to somehow find the money to go home, and the courage to forget about her.

He would not remember to leave the pendant with Adela, which was a shame, but maybe that was for the best in the long run, she reflected. Although she knew she needed those nightly sessions with the contents of the jewellery box, it might be about time to wean herself off them. After all, was she truly healthy until she did? Or was there a piece of Cassandra Ainsworth left inside her that she wasn't sure she wanted to acknowledge?

She had showered just before the call, but it occurred to her that that brief conversation had left marks in the perfect persona she had carved for herself, and a bath seemed the perfect way to wash them off. She lay neck deep in bubbles and scrubbed at her skin as if it were stained with mud, hoping that somehow her endeavours could clean away the psychological markings, too – or at least send them to that part of her mind only opened with the key from the pendant.

Another ring. Not the phone this time, but the doorbell. Cassie exhaled, and running another hand through her sopping wet hair. No time to finish washing it now. _Fucking_ _Adela_. She clambered out of the bath, enjoying watching the droplets of gleaming water scatter, falling from her ankles onto the tiled floor. She ran her hands down over her body, rejoicing in the feeling of happiness in herself. It seemed miraculous now that she could be 'on the thin side of healthy' and still not want to starve herself.

Wrapping a towel around herself, she applied her standard cerise lipstick before proceeding to the front door. She'd never been shy about skimpy clothing, and Del was her best friend, so she didn't see why she should go to the bother of drying and getting dressed when she would be getting straight back in as soon as she knew Adela was okay.

The door opened, and Cassie almost yelped. No smily twenty-something with glossy brunette plaits – no, it was Sid, smelling of sweat and with an inane, pleased-with-himself smile on his face. "You put your address in the necklace, too." She stepped aside without thinking, mouth still hanging open, and watched as he stepped inside, opening his arms. She stared at him. _How fucking stupid can one guy be?_

"I know I did. I just didn't think you'd be idiotic enough to come."

He looked at her for a long time. "Sorry? Cass – " She didn't interrupt him but he ran short anyway – well, she'd expected that. It wasn't like he had anything to say.

"You're bad for me."

"Well, you're bad for me too." Cassie almost laughed. _So fucking childish._

"I know, and that's why I'm finishing what I started a long time ago. We can't have a relationship. It won't work." Again, those eyes, soft and rich, gazing at her, _into_ her. She didn't remember them having the capacity to do that.

"What happened to you, Cass?"

"I got better."

"You're not the same. I don't like it."

"Then you're a dick."

In any other argument Cassie and Sid had ever had, at this point there had been so much sexual tension that it fairly quickly stopped being an argument and turned into something much more satisfying. But, just like Sid had pointed out – and oh, how Cassie hated to admit that he was right – something had changed.

"I don't think I'm a dick." He sounded so doubtful, so confused, so utterly Sid-like that laughter rose in her throat again. "But I love you."

"Sid, Sid, Sid." Her voice shrank to a whisper and she inched a little closer to him. "I'm sorry to disappoint you. You came all this way to find me, just to discover that I wasn't here at all?" His eyes were wide. Ah, easy. A typical Cassie sentence and he was back in her control. She had always loved control. Control of her eating, her time, her _people_. Chris and Jal. She had ruined them once. Now Chris was dead – by no stretch of the imagination could that be made her fault, but he was dead, and she had broken him before, and when you put these two things together they made her heart ache.

As if in plea, he put out a hand – she wasn't sure what for and it was likely that he wasn't either, but she raised her own, and their fingertips brushed. That was a mistake; she hadn't wanted the electricity that was the immediate result. But then, what else could she have expected? It had always been there. Between them. Cassie cursed herself.

"You are," he said – what was he talking about again? She had been distracted, and fuck, she hated that – a desperate determination in his voice. "You _are_ here, and I'm going to find you." _Because I love you._ He didn't say the words. That would have been far too cliché... But he might as well have.

It hurt Cassie to admit it but the kiss was more out of pity than anything else. He stumbled backwards a little, which was ridiculous – she might have put on weight since her recovery, but she was willing to bet he weighed at least twice as much as her. Obviously it was just her talent – and she had talent in buckets, she knew at least that.

He pulled his head away from her and she was left hanging. _That's something I'm not used to._ It wasn't exactly like she had thrown herself into mindless sex since arriving in New York, as she had done the last time their relationship had been fucked up. (And how many times had that happened, now? God, she was bored of counting.) But she certainly wasn't dating, that was still too difficult, and a bit of alcohol and maybe a one-night-stand was fun that anyone was entitled too. So she was used to drunken acceptance.

"I thought – I thought that was what you wanted?" _Too weak, Cassie. Too weak._

"Yeah. Um, yeah." Again, the confused, searching stare. He went to kiss her again but she dodged it. No chemistry, no point. _And you missed your fucking chance._

"Give me my necklace back and fuck off."

He didn't pause, and the expression in his eyes was pleading, not devilish, so she knew that his next request was not manipulation (it was Sid. As if) but a genuine request. "I don't have anywhere to sleep."

What else could she have done?

Of course, she didn't let him sleep in her bed. Another Cassie might have, but she was stronger and weaker and all sorts of things that she didn't want to contemplate. He didn't ask to – although she could see the question in his eyes. He wasn't the sort of person who asked for things he wanted.

Or was he? Was she qualified to say that sort of thing about Sid anymore? He'd come all the way to New York to find her, evidently searched the streets, spent all of his money on the one thing he wanted. It wasn't clever but it did indicate determination. _And_ he'd taken the pendant; not listened to her when she told him to leave it with Adela. Maybe Cassie wasn't the only one who had changed. Whether or not that was a good thing, she was still unsure.

She had to ask him to give it back to her, too. He was asleep on the sofa when she approached the jewellery box late that night, only to remember that he still had the key. And there was no chance of her forgoing it for one night. _No point going without when it'll be easy to go with – no point going without when one simple little turn of a key in a lock and everything will be fine again._

It would have been clichéd to ask him to wake up, so she simply stole into the living room and sat down beside him on the couch. As she had expected, he'd strung the pendant around his own neck. _Sweet, really_. Her hands flew to it, one resting on his chest – just lightly enough to steady his breathing without risking waking him – and the fingers of the other creeping towards the pendant itself. It would be much easier than she had expected.

At least, that was what she thought, but apparently Sid had decided to surpass her expectations yet again. Just as she was about to pull the necklace away, his eyes snapped open, his hand moved to her collar, and she had to suppress a gasp. "I'm not that stupid," he said, and with a most un-Sidlike half-smile he pulled her down onto his mouth.

It wasn't particularly passionate, but it had the spontaneity that earlier's kiss had lacked, and she was so breathless that she didn't have the energy to resist. (Whether she would have done if she had is a whole other question.) Their parting was not a definite boundary – their lips were still only millimetres apart – but she took the opportunity to get her breath back in a series of shallow gasps. Her first instinct was to slap him, her second to kiss him again. But before she could do either, he was sitting up, and she moved backwards to accommodate him.

The next interaction went by in moments. His mouth just behind her ear, and she took the opportunity to snatch the pendant from around his neck. _You meant that to happen, didn't you? So much fucking cleverer than I remembered. What's happened to you?_ "Doing it properly, are we? Fan of tradition, are we?" The words came out in a hiss. "This is a _stupid_ game for a _stupid_ boy."

"And a stupid girl," he reminded her drily. One finger lifted to trace her cheek, and she was forced to catch her breath again. "Who are you, Cassie?"

Later that night she regretted absolutely everything about that interaction – later that night, after she had opened the jewellery box and made herself better. Later that night, as she removed her clothes – a silk camisole tossed this way, a pair of lace knickers that – and stood naked and vulnerable in front of her bedroom mirror.

 _Who am I?_

 _And who is he?_


	4. Shatter

**oldangray - Your wish is my command. I hope you are satisfied with the contents of the box!**

 **Cuthbert72 - I completely agree with you as regards Cassie. She needs to understand that she can be herself without succumbing to her illness again. Anyway; hopefully you will like what comes next - for the moment, at least.**

 _The bus hit. The ornament shattered._

 _Again, again, again. A nightmare on replay._

 _He was drenched in broken pieces, drowning in them. Sellotape didn't fix this kind of breakage. But Sid had always been short on DIY skills. All he had was Sellotape._

 _And he knew that once it was put back together it wouldn't be the same anymore._

Sid wasn't sure what the point was anymore. Every day he woke up, aching from sleeping on the lumpy sofa, and searched the flat to discover that Cassie had gone to work – or, on the weekends, to a friend's house. Anything to avoid him. Then he watched shitty reality TV until she returned, made dinner, and inevitably ignored him for the rest of the evening. What a wonderful fucking life.

Since the night she'd reclaimed the pendant, the two hadn't so much as kissed – although he kept trying to make opportunities to talk, she was making it very clear that she was only letting him stay here out of pity. Evidently her patience had run out. _I thought you loved me, Cassie? I thought you always would?_ The real questions – the ones he wouldn't, couldn't ask. He was beginning to wonder if _forever_ meant something different to what he had always thought. If anything he thought he knew was real at all.

She wasn't the same – she wasn't who she had been. He knew that much, but every time he pointed it out he got the same exasperated reply. _It's because I'm better, Sid. It's because I'm happy. It's because everything's_ fucking _perfect_. And to him, it seemed like that. He had always loved to hear her laugh, but now the sound grated on him. _Why is she laughing? How can she even consider being happy when what we had is broken?_

A better person might have done something about it, but Sid just didn't have the courage. And so it was, ironically, that his luck only changed when Cassie finally got sick of him.

"How long is this going to go on for, Sid?" The question was asked over dinner; one of the few times when they actually talked to one another. She'd offered several times to bring it to him on the couch, but he treasured those few moments in her company. Besides which, he was worried that if he accepted that proposal, he would end up only leaving the sofa to visit the bathroom, and he wasn't ready to become that much of a slob.

"I... don't know?"

"Until one of us gives up? Because I'm not going to. And I won't play this game forever." Her voice was cool, and though of course, she was being cruel, he almost felt good at hearing those words: because they were Cassie, pure and simple. And Sid missed her.

"It's not a game."

"Pardon?" From the icy look on her delicate face, he could tell that she was only feigning not having heard him – to draw attention to the fact that he had spoken with his mouth full, of course. "I didn't quite hear you over the sound of you munching ungracefully on those potatoes that _I_ laboured over for the last hour."

"You want me to cook?" Frankly, he was astonished. There are many nice things to say about Sid, but observant is not one of them, and as such he had completely overlooked the fact that he was essentially an economic drain on Cassie at the present.

She rewarded him with an exaggerated sigh. "I want you to do _something_. A job would be best but as you're apparently you're too useless to even give me a hand with the cleaning, that's obviously a bit far-fetched. If you'd only help out now and then I could save up some money for you to go back to Bristol, because I'm honestly tired of having you around."

"I'm not going back to Bristol."

"Well, you're not staying here for much longer." She got to her feet, turning to drop her plate and cutlery into the sink, then beginning to scrub at them with an aggression that she would clearly rather have exerted on Sid. _When did she get so... reasonable? And more worryingly, when did I become second priority?_

"I don't have anywhere else to go!"

"And a fine lot of effort you're making to change that." By the time she had turned back to face him he knew he was in for it. Her arms were folded, her lips pursed in a frown. "What do you want from this, anyway? A relationship? Because even if I was stupid enough to let that happen again, it wouldn't make me any happier about the fact that you've just walked in and ruined my fucking life. It wouldn't change the fact that I'm working hard every day to support _you_. It wouldn't change the fact that you're absolutely fucking _useless_!"

Her arms had been flung to her sides again, her face discoloured, her breathing laboured. The wild expression on her face had gone, and now it seemed that she could tell she'd gone too far. "I'm sorry." Her eyes flickered suddenly downwards, and Sid, for his part, felt a love and sympathy rise in him that he was sure had been wiped out by the past fruitless weeks. He got to his feet and skirted the table to come to her, instinctively wrapping his arms around her waist. _You're a fucking mystery, Cassandra Ainsworth._ She was so much less frail than he had remembered, so much less strong than he had thought.

"I love you," he told her unnecessarily, and she replied in a whisper.

"Don't say that."

"And I miss you." He didn't know how to phrase it, but he knew exactly what was going on. Yes, Cassie was 'better', and she was so afraid of relapsing that she was cutting off everything, right down to herself, that she could even faintly associate with the past. _She doesn't even say_ wow _anymore. She doesn't even say_ lovely _._

"But I'm right here."

 _Are you?_

Sid didn't know but it wasn't the time for deep questions, it was the time for tears – so he let her cry. She gave him sob after racking sob, low guttural moans that made his stomach clench and his heart ache, her nails biting into his back and her tears soaking his T-shirt. She cried until her face was red and raw. She cried until it was dark outside. She cried until Sid thought it was time for her to stop crying; until he scooped her into his arms like a baby and carried her into her bedroom. There, she cried until she fell asleep.

It seems easy to say here that that was the first time since arriving that Sid slept in her bed, but that wouldn't be true, because he didn't sleep. He was tired, yes, and it took everything he could to stop himself slipping away, but he lay back on the pillow, eyes firmly open, and held tight onto Cassie's now-abundant curls as if they were all that attached him to reality.

From then on, two things changed. The first was that Sid made an attempt to be useful. He did the washing up, cooked now and then, even worked a few short-term jobs. Although Cassie never said anything, the smile on her face when she came home to flowers on the table or a few extra coins in the emergency jar was enough. The second was that although they had still not shared any sort of romantic interaction, the atmosphere between them was definitely easier. Sometimes, Cassie would allow Sid a brief hug, and in those moments he often almost considered kissing her, but he was afraid of what it would do to their precarious friendship if they did. Certainly the chemistry that had always existed between them was lighter, but it was still there, and if there was one thing about which he agreed with Cassie, it was that their past relationship had been painfully destructive. Passion in love, passion in anger. They had to be careful.

That's not to say that things were perfect. After a particularly stressful day Cassie would often jibe about Sid's presence in the apartment, sometimes even to the extent that he considered taking some money and finding a hostel. If there was one thing he didn't want to do, it was inconvenience her, and a great portion of his time was devoted to trying to prevent that from happening. And Sid, who had indeed been hoping that they would _both_ return to Bristol at some point, often found himself contemplating the sheer futility of their current state.

"I'm happy," she would say, whenever he brought this up. "You're the one who wanted this – whatever it is."

Well, it certainly wasn't a relationship, and at times even calling it a friendship would be pushing it, but it was true that Sid wanted it and he wasn't giving it up easily. Only he was beginning to wonder if Cassie, despite her many protests, wanted it too, and perhaps if only a little more time was needed to soften the boundaries between them, they could start to progress from their purgatorial state. Could he learn to love this new, reserved version of the girl who had meant so much to him – who still _did_ mean everything to him? And in her own, denial-ridden way, could she reciprocate that?

She could. She could, and she did, because what Sid failed to realise was that Cassie still was the same person, albeit with a lot more walls around her. And what he soon discovered was that the best thing for taking walls down was... well, alcohol. What else?

Cassie's boss had called and told her that she could take some time off. She had enjoyed that time with what had become her usual entertainments – meeting up with her friend Adela at museums, cinemas, libraries. Sid wasn't about to pretend that he had any interest in these sorts of things, so he didn't tend to go with them, and he was well conscious that her brief holiday was nearing its end. _Why not plan something a few nights before she goes back? I can't remember the last time_ I _went out, let alone Cassie._

She had been reluctant at hearing the proposal but it seemed that since Sid's arrival Cassie was not quite as thoroughly 'good' as she had been. Soon, he had her convinced, and she was standing by his side just inside the door of a club, shivering in a skimpy silver dress that made his head reel. "This is ridiculous," she reminded him, and he almost laughed. New-Cassie might not be the girl he had fallen in love with, but she had her own quirks, and he was beginning to get used to them.

They drank. They danced. He even convinced her to take a few pills, although he wasn't sure he liked the look on her face, illuminated briefly by the flashing neon lights, as she pushed them into her mouth. Finally, she was high enough to kiss him – not a good kiss, surrounded as they were by grinding, sweaty bodies, but one that they needed, even if they _were_ both too drunk and drugged up to have remembered it if not for what followed.

For the first time since Cassie left Bristol, they had sex, and it was in a club toilet. "Classy," she managed afterwards, still catching her breath. "Is this where you culminate all your love affairs these days?"

Sid didn't know what culminate meant, so he just grinned and kissed her again.

They woke up on the apartment floor, clothes for the most part ruined. As Sid reflected, at least they'd managed to find their way back home. Both had a banging head-ache and he was worried that she would be angry at him, but apparently their reunion had meant more to her than he had feared. The next few days before she went back to work passed in a haze of sex, tears, and reality TV, and honestly, neither could have planned it better.

When she went back to work, it was still good, if less intimate. Sid got a job at a call centre, which was mind-numbingly boring, but worth it for the smile Cassie gave him when she found out he'd got himself a long-term job. Their relationship began to evolve into what could only be described as perfect, if not for the few tiny puzzle pieces that were missing.

First and simplest, there was Bristol – his home. Tony, who had been so good to him in those last few days, and who he might never see again. His mother. His friends, the life he had planned and hoped for, the life he could have had if not for Chris. He knew it all came back to Chris. Would everything have been torn apart the way it was if not for his death? He was sure it wouldn't have, and he was sure that just as it plagued him, it was plaguing Cassie – a scar she would not willingly reveal to him even now.

Next, there was his own self. He had never been _particularly_ intelligent but he had been happy with his exam results, and he couldn't help wishing that he could have followed them up in some way. Got a job with more skill than sitting around making telephone calls. But how could he, when every day was taken up with what manifested itself as problem number three? Cassie. He knew that she was well, or at least thought she was. But there were little things: the way she disappeared every night, ritually, into her bedroom for half an hour, emerged with a dazed smile, and when asked about it pretended she didn't know what Sid was talking about. The way she'd catch her breath if she found herself displaying any sort of emotion, any memory of her past. And the way she cried, still, when she thought he couldn't hear her.

 _Better_.

Sid didn't like being lied to, and as such, the next thing he did could be said to be exceedingly stupid.

Cassie did not always wear her pendant – most of the time, but not always. She took it off when she went into the bath; it seemed to Sid that it must be made of some sort of metal that she couldn't take into the water. Most of the time she placed it on the edge of the sink, but since things between them had returned to normal she was a lot more comfortable about just leaving it in the bedroom.

He wasn't a particularly curious person. But he was a loving person, and he loved Cassie, and he was worried about her. So one day, love got the better of him, and he prised open the pendant to take out the little key inside. She had several jewellery boxes, but only one that needed a key to be opened – it was large, bigger than any other like container he had seen before, and plain. What bracelets and necklaces could be precious enough to lock away? For her to carry the key around with her at all times?

His question was never answered because what was inside that jewellery box was not bracelets, or necklaces. It wasn't rings or brooches or earrings. It didn't even have pockets – just a giant empty space, filled with – and Sid thought he must be going crazy to admit it – _pills_.

There were so many. Hundreds, he thought, maybe even thousands. They were mostly white, with a few little gold ones dotted around the surface: perhaps a fifty to one ratio, he thought. The strangest thing was that it was so full. Why would Cassie – why would _anyone_ need that many? She'd been going to the jewellery box for such long periods each night, it seemed irrational that she could only be having one or two.

He was lost in these thoughts when he heard her voice, as soft and as essentially Cassie as it had always been.

"Uh-oh. Bad Sid."

He turned around to see her in the doorway and didn't have the time or the wits to explain. She walked into the room, feet light on the floor, an almost sadistic glint in her brown eyes. "You broke it, Sid. It was all hanging in the balance. It was so delicate. And you just broke it."

"I just – I wanted to know – "

"The doctor gives them to me. They stop me being sad. Otherwise... " She lifted one arm from the towel wrapped around her and Sid saw scars – from months ago, maybe even from before she left Bristol, but still scars. "Amazing how long they last, isn't it?"

"I thought you were better, Cass!"

"I am better. When I take the pills." It explained everything – or would have done, if not for the sheer volume of medicine in the box. He looked up at her again and his eyes must have been asking a question, because she answered. "The gold ones make me happy. And the white ones I've stolen and bought and traded for. I don't know what they do, but if you take too many... " Her voice trailed off. Sid wished it wasn't so easy to guess what she meant. "It just makes me feel safe. Knowing that I can. If I need to. Even if I'm better."

"That's not healthy."

And she laughed – a laugh that would have been a cruel laugh if anyone but Cassie had laughed it. "But when have I ever been healthy, Sid?"

She was gone, her towel whirling out at her ankles in a way that only she could make elegant, and Sid was left sitting in their bedroom with his hands in a box of God-knows-what pills, knowing that everything he held dear – _everything_ – had just shattered into pieces.

 _The bus hit. The ornament shattered._

 _Again, again, again. A nightmare on replay._

 _He was drenched in broken pieces, drowning in them. Sellotape didn't fix this kind of breakage. But Sid had always been short on DIY skills. All he_ had _was Sellotape._

 _And he knew that once it was put back together it wouldn't be the same anymore._


	5. Bottles

**Sorry this update took so long! In my defence, I've been without WiFi for the last few days.**

 **Cuthbert72 - I agree - although you might find her a little** ** _too_** **emotionally expressive in this chapter, if you get my drift.**

 **oldandgray - Glad to have surprised you ;)**

 **Thankyou so much for your support and I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

 _Fuck you, Sidney Jenkins._

 _Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you FUCK YOU._

She threw the pills out of the window in handfuls. She didn't care what would happened when people noticed them on the street. Then the box – a beautiful box, and it smashed on the street and broke into pieces. _Fuck_ _you_. When she'd done with the pills and the box it was the pictures of them, the new pictures, the New York pictures where they were laughing and smiling and really truly being happy for once. Next it was his clothes, his books, his video games. His _fucking toothbrush. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you._

She was already broken but he'd broken them so _she'd_ _break_ _him_.

He could die on the streets for all she cared at that moment, she was so angry. It was a _secret_. It was _her_ _secret_. It was the one part of her she hadn't given to him, but apparently ninety nine percent of Cassie wasn't good enough for him. She bet that even _thirty_ percent of Michelle would have been good enough. But she wasn't thinking like that, because she was better.

Or had been.

Before _fucking_ _Sidney_ _Jenkins_.

 _Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you._

He was asleep at the moment. She'd told him, her voice as cold as possible, that he could go to bed, and in the morning, they'd talk. (They wouldn't.) He'd done some pointless pleading but she had stood there and glared at him until he realised that he was wasting time. Now he was asleep on the sofa. She'd wake him up just as soon as she'd broken every single one of his possessions and then kick him out of the house.

To anyone else but Cassie this level of anger at what was seemingly a small offence would have appeared ridiculous. But what anyone else wouldn't have realised is that the pills were more than a small issue, an embarrassing secret. They were every part of her that she didn't want, locked away, safe but for that little period of time she spent running her hand through and over those smooth, lovely, comforting little packets of possible death. And by opening the box, he had let that part out.

So now _every_ part of her was angry. And this combination of old, crazy, heart-breaker Cassie and new, cold, power-bitch Cassie was very, very, powerful.

She had work in the morning. She wasn't going. Sid's fault. Old Cassie wouldn't have gone to work very much, and now new Cassie _was_ old Cassie and everything was wrong. She wasn't going to work and she wouldn't go to the cinema with Adela afterwards and she wouldn't come home and kiss Sid goodnight and she wouldn't be happy and it would all be _fucking_ shit.

If only he hadn't come. If only he hadn't turned up and ruined everything. Why, why, why did she let him in?

But as it stood, or at least as she saw it, everything was broken and ruined. And so she didn't stop at Sid's things. Before she had the chance to even think about what she was doing, her own clothes were being torn, discarded, _burnt_. Her furniture was smashing on the street below. Neighbours were waking up, they were at her door, Sid was waking up, people were screaming at her, was she okay?, _of course not, of course not_ , people were screaming at her, Sid was crying he was _crying_ , she was crying, everyone was crying, and oh, her ears were _too_ _full_ , _too_ _full_ , _too_ _full_...

She woke up cold and sad and shivering. His arms were around her and once that would have meant she was okay, but now they were like a weed, an infection, wrapping around her – _constricting_ her.

 _Get_ _away_. "Get away." _Get_ _away_. "Get away!" _Get_ _away_. "GET AWAY!"

He did not move his arms – he did not even wake up – so she had to move them herself. It took pretty much all the energy she had left to stand up and when she did she found herself on a street corner in the middle of somewhere she didn't recognise with her hair dirty and raggy and her clothes torn and her eyes wet and oh she was _hungry_ , _hungry_ , _hungry_.

She had not known what to expect when she had begun throwing the things. If she had thought about it, she supposed she would have realised that it would attract attention, that there would be something inherently wrong about it – but of course, she had not thought. She imagined her own road, the furniture all over it, the _pills_. Her heart lurched. Those lovely pills that she had spent so long saving up. Those lovely pills that had kept her safe, safe in any eventuality. _Gone_. All gone. And it was _Sid's_ _fault_.

Where were they, anyway? She was always travelling the city; it didn't make any sense for them to be somewhere they didn't recognise. And they had slept on a street. How long had she been out for, anyway? It was the night-time; she figured it couldn't be the same night as when Sid had found the pills and she had thrown everything out of the window. _What_ _the_ hell _is_ _going_ _on_?

"What the _hell_ is going on?" Apparently he had been half-awake by this point because as she bent down to shake his shoulders his eyes flickered open and she could see the shadow of fear cross his eyes. "Where _are_ we? How long have I been asleep?"

"I – people were coming. Police and all that. They thought it might be a domestic or something. I wanted to get you out. Didn't want them looking at you. Locking you up or something."

"They wouldn't have _locked me up_ ," she hissed, although she was doubtful. Was what she had done really that crazy? How did it rank in terms of all her other insane feats? She was so used to being referred to various clinics, prescribed all the new drugs, asked to _do_ _this_ and _do_ _that_ and _utilise_ _positive_ _thinking_ _techniques_. That was supposed to have stopped now – reduced to visits to the doctor every now and again to renew her prescription. And now she felt herself sinking back into the Cassie she had been before, the Cassie who lived her life in a whirl of ambulances, pills and tears. The Cassie she didn't want to be. "You should have let them talk to me. They could have made me better again."

 _Better_ , _better_ , _better_. That word again. Of course, she didn't really want to talk to the people – whoever they were, whoever they meant. But complaining at Sid was easy and it let out some of the swelling pain and anger in her chest.

"You didn't answer my questions, Sid."

"Oh. We're in Albany. And you haven't been out, not really. All funny for a few days and then you passed out a couple hours ago. What's the last thing you remember?"

"Throwing – the sirens – " She had not run out of words, it was simply hurting her to remember. She closed her eyes and saw the white, white pills fall from her own delicate hands, bouncing and smashing on the sidewalk. Ripping and tearing Sid's clothes, her own clothes – her tables and chairs, that she had so diligently saved for – breaking – everything breaking – Suddenly she was crying again and he was up again, holding her again.

" _Albany_. Fucking _Albany_." It was almost worth laughing at. "What do we do now, huh? What's your plan?"

"I don't have a plan."

Of course he didn't, of course not. He had food though, and she ate happily, glad that at least this vestige of her former 'health' had remained. Fruit, biscuits, little cartons of juice that he must have saved from the house before leaving. They wouldn't last long, but at the moment she was living in the present and she sensed that he was too – because what was the point of planning for a future that you had already destroyed?

Her apartment, her clothes, her food, her things, her job, her friends, her pills, her _life_. Their life. All gone in a few rushed and stupid decisions that had taken place over, what, three hours? All gone. And now they were basically on the run with... nothing.

Nothing at all.

The one thing that is surprisingly easy to get without money is fun. A few whispers in the right ears, a wandering hand every now and again, and above all a big, red-lips, white-teeth smile, and they found themselves exactly where they wanted to be – in the middle of a club, with alcohol in their veins and ecstasy, in every sense of the word, in their hearts.

When they finally staggered out of the sweaty, strobe-lit club, neither of them were really sure what to do next. _Where to sleep? What to eat? What to do in the morning?_ But the questions answered themselves – sleep whenever you can catch a moment, eat whatever you can find, and in the morning, well, you just repeat yourself. They had long, hazy days and nights of getting thrown out of clubs and into gutters, drinking every time the ghost of a memory touched them, hurting each other emotionally and sometimes even physically. Long hazy days turned into long hazy weeks, and soon the past when they had been happy and in love seemed almost like a distant memory.

How they even survived that month was something that Cassie did not understand and probably never would. Money never touched their fingers; but somehow they managed to find food, going hungry only every now and again. Somehow they managed to wrangle drugs most nights – of course, ninety percent of the time she had to offer services for them, but it wasn't exactly like she'd never done that before and it didn't make her feel bad about herself. Even if it had been something she'd found demeaning, it wasn't like she had much self-respect anyway. She knew that Sid didn't like her doing it, but then, she and Sid weren't exactly in a relationship anymore, or even particularly friends.

They were just together because they didn't know how to be apart.

"When are we going to sort this out, huh?" he asked her one night, stumbling out the back door of a club with his hair a mess, his clothes dark with sweat, pupils dilated so badly that there was hardly any colour left.

She didn't have an answer, so she just laughed, a high, cruel, noise, and offered him the last of the amphetamines for which she'd just spent the last half hour pressed up against the wall of a supply closet. He took them, of course, because that was what they did these days, but pressed the question. "We can't just do _this_ for the next sixty years." ( _This_ meaning drugs, drink, and depression, of course.)

"Why not?" She swung around so that her lips were millimetres away from his, the breath on which the words were carried moving dancing at the tip of her tongue before sailing from her mouth to his in the space of a second. He gulped, and she laughed again; she'd _got_ _him_ , she'd trapped him. They wouldn't, anyway. The thought was ridiculous. Even if they never 'sorted it out', one or both of them would probably die or get arrested some time soon. Either that or they'd lose each other one day, hands unclasping, snatched by the heaving, perspiring, pulsating mass of bodies on the dance floor, then wandering the cold streets of Albany for hours afterwards, making plaintive, lupine calls into the empty, obsidian night air. _You don't know what you've got until it's gone._

But Cassie didn't like to think about that. "Why not?" she repeated, chasing the biting worries out of her head, tossing the ball effortlessly back into his court.

He had to think about that one.

"Well, because it would be a bit shit, wouldn't it?

" _I_ think it's _perfect_."

Of course, she thought no such thing, but she felt a sadistic sort of pleasure at seeing the sad, searching look in his eyes when she said things like that. "Don't be silly."

But 'don't be silly' was a silly thing to say, and Sid knew that, and Cassie knew that. She did not reply, and instead just led him through the urban maze to the nearest binyard they could find. They ate from bins most nights, which sounded inelegant, but city people were wasteful and often there was good food to be had. That particular day they had cold vegetable pizza – still in the box, only a few days out of date. Cassie only picked at hers, more out of snobbery than her old fear of gaining weight, but Sid wolfed it down, and that made a strange and precious part of her happy.

More nights went past, and they were all the same. Most of the time there was less conversation, but they did always end up together at the end of the night, only letting each other go for however long it took for Cassie to earn the drugs that kept them going. They slept under bridges, on street corners, anywhere they could find, and some nights they didn't sleep at all, but lay awake on the cold hard sidewalk with their fingertips almost touching and their heads throbbing with fading intoxication. The phenomenen of two people who love each other and always will spending twenty-three and a half hours a day together and yet hardly speaking to one another and never expressing anything even nearing affection is a ridiculous one, but it was what was happening. Cassie sometimes wondered what it would be like to forgive Sid. If it would make things better. It was her fault they had lost everything, she knew that, but her logic wasn't quite as simple as that. He had broken her trust. That was what mattered.

Of course, by her new system, she could obtain as many pills as she liked – and it would be a dreadful lie to say she never considered doing just that, gulping them all down and letting herself slip away. Sid wouldn't know what to do, he never did. She would die in his arms and he would hold her body until some innocent passerby came across him in the early hours of the morning and exclaimed with fake concern.

But she knew what it would do to him. How badly it would hurt him. And she wasn't _quite_ that angry – or perhaps just not quite that cruel.

So Cassie lived. She lived in the cracks between pavements, in the cigarettes stubbed on her own pale skin, in the moans she elicited from those who were willing to take something less and more than money for their drugs. She lived in the smiles Sid gave her when he was too drunk to remember how sad they both were and the days when she woke up before him and watched him slumped against the back wall of some trashy club, mouth half-open. Most of all she lived in the emotions she felt in those fleeting moments, the tears streaking her cheeks when she knew he couldn't hear, the drugged-up laughter they pretended was happiness, the rage, the despair, bottles of vodka clenched tight in her fist, cutting into her skin, blood and broken glass scattered on the sidewalk.


	6. Epoxy

**Hold on tight.**

Sid did not keep track of the passing of time. His ears were filled with head-ache when he woke up and dizzy, druggy songs when he fell asleep. Sometimes Cassie's face would loom in front of him, giggling and distorted – he knew she was there, always there, but that gave him no comfort because she had broken again and it was his fault.

In short, he was not okay. He was scared, because he knew that at any moment Cassie could make the leap she had been considering for such a long time. And although he knew that he had already lost her, the idea of that irrevocable separation – the strange and teasing smile gone from her lips, her chest no longer heaving with giddy breath, her mouth half-open, pale and frozen. It was that image that haunted his infrequent dreams, and it was that image, perversely, that gave him hope. Things will change. We won't be stuck in this infernal rut for much longer. For better or for worse, things will change.

He was not a person who acted. Who did things. Who made things change himself. And so he wasn't the one who ended up making the change. Neither was Cassie. It was, in fact, an old man with an angry expression who'd been shuffling along the sidewalk, heading for God knows where, as they stumbled along the streets looking for a place to sleep in the early hours after a particularly draining night. He looked at them and sniffed. Cassie giggled. Sid, not wanting to cause offence, tried to step aside, but Cassie had other plans, swaying dangerously back into the man's path with a pixie like grin. Sid couldn't let go of her arm without risking her falling over, and so there they were, stood pointlessly in the way of a (probably) harmless old pensioner who just wanted to go visit his wayward son or whatever. He gave the man an apologetic smile.

But he didn't seem to be going to move. The man ploughed forwards, and of course, of the three of them, Sid was the first to give in. He pulled at Cassie's wrist – but she turned it into a game, of course, of _course_ , swinging around on his hands until she was laughing in the road – Sid ran towards her – _what are you_ playing _at, Cassie? –_ but of course it just had to go wrong. Of course she didn't see the bus –

 _Sid's fingers rest on the corner of the page. He can see Tony just over the top of the book, Tony weak and broken. Tony with wires in his skin and his strange, cruel, eyes closed. Tony not how Tony should be._

 _The room shakes in Sid's eyes. He did not see the bus hit his friend but he sees it now; as clear as if it were a true memory. He sees the glass break – Tony's blue eyes, Cassie's pale skin. The two people most dear to him... Tony, in the hospital bed. Tony weak and broken. Tony with wires in his skin and his strange, cruel, eyes closed. Tony not how Tony should be._

 _Sid will_ not let that happen to Cassie.

Human shields are more effective than science would lead you to believe. Sid didn't know that but he had to try, didn't he? So he leapt.

It was heroism, no less. Sid was not an arrogant person but what he did was brave and good and he was proud of himself. Even as the bus hit and Cassie stumbled backwards behind him with a shriek. Even as the breath left him, even as he felt his own blood wet his skin. Even as black shutters were pulled down over his eyes.

Her face swam above him like a mirage, her fingers on his cheeks, slender and gentle. Her lips formed the words – _wake_ _up_ , _wake_ _up_ , _wake_ _up_ – but there was no sound. Just the beat of his own heart in his ears. He closed his eyes again. That was easier.

"Sid, Sid, Sid... " He wanted her to carry on speaking, to carry on saying his name, because there was a gentleness in the way she said it that he had not heard from her for a long time. But her voice trailed away, and he was not alert enough to tell if she had gone to tears, or if she simply didn't see the need to carry on speaking.

"Hey, Cass," he said, and after that he was too tired to say anything more. But he heard her gasp and he was happy. He had shocked her. He had been stronger than she had expected. He had always been _so much stronger than they knew._

Her hand was on his. Warmer than usual. He held it. She cried.

"Sid, I'm sorry. I'm making things better now. Don't be like Tony. Wake up and be well and I'll show you everything I've done to make things better."

"Sid, I fucked up. I thought it was all or nothing. I thought it was a choice between sanity and self. It's not. I can have both. And I will be, if you'll just wake up for me, but for now... For now I think I'm just a little too tired... "

"Sid, I love you. If you could just wake up for a little while? Just long enough to say you love me too? That would mean a lot to me, Sid. I'll be Cassie. Proper Cassie. Good Cassie. I'll be all the things you wanted me to be. I'll be more than that. I'll be anything, do anything. If you'll just wake up. If you'll just speak to me again."

He heard her. But he was too tired for this.

She was crying again. She often cried when she came to see him. If he spoke, or squeezed her hand, or was awake for any substantial amount of time, then her eyes might stay dry for a little while. He didn't know how long it had been since the bus. He was awake and asleep and awake and asleep and awake and asleep – awake just long enough to eat, to go to the toilet. He didn't have any wires in him anymore, and he liked that, but he was still not well, he knew that. He was so tired all of the time. He didn't know why or how bad he really was. Would he be like Tony had been? He didn't want to be like Tony had been...

Oh, but she was crying again, and he didn't want her to cry.

"Cassie, Cassie... "

"You do love me, don't you, Sid?"

He had been awake for a long time but his eyes were closed because he was tired. There was water on his bedside table, and he knew that if he could just get the strength to sit up, he could drink a little, and he would feel better. But Cassie's words were in his head like bees. He did love her. And he wanted to say so. But the words just weren't coming off his tongue like they were supposed to.

"Sid? Sid, I know you're awake."

Ah, she could tell. He didn't know how but she could. She was like that, Cassie. Clever in the strangest of ways. He wondered what her exam results had been for a second, and if he had had the strength, he would have laughed, because it was such a silly thing to wonder about.

"Do you want some water? Say you love me and I'll pass you the water"

She'd found his weak spot like she always did. He pressed his eyes tighter shut. _Too tired just now. Leave me be. Come back later, when I'm well._

But when _would_ he be well?

There was sadness in him suddenly, more sadness than he had been strong enough to feel in a long time, and he let himself open his eyes and smile. She smiled back. "Hi, Cassie, you came to visit me," he said, and he sat up and got the water himself and drank it. _Stop saying later, Sid. Later turns into never._ That's what she'd have said if he'd have voiced his thoughts. So he said it to himself. And then he gave her the words she wanted, because she deserved them, and because they were true. "I love you. When can I leave this shithole?"

She laughed, and Sid noted that she didn't even look surprised. Maybe she _had_ known how strong he was, after all.

On the day of his discharge Sid was feeling great. Somehow, his accident had done something to his relationship with Cassie that nothing else could. Grief was like that, he supposed. And now, they were holding hands outside the flat she was renting, and he knew that soon, everything was going to be alright. Everything was going to be perfect.

He knew that Cassie had been getting help, had finally succumbed to admitting her own weaknesses. When he'd asked what they were doing about the 'episode' she'd had after he'd discovered the pills, she'd simply told him elusively that – 'Oh, it's all being sorted out'. He didn't have the heart (or the gut) to ask any more questions.

Her new place wasn't great. He ran his eyes over torn wallpaper, carpets pulled up at the edges, a severe lack of furniture, and felt guilty again for ruining what she had had before. He remembered the simple, impressive purity of her apartment the first night he had slept there. The elegant tables and chairs. The windows, sparkling and open. Everything so _clean_. And he, hurricane-like, had stormed in and destroyed it all. It was almost worth laughing at. He, Sid, the bringer of change?

They cooked together that night, which made little sense, seeing as she was a thousand times better than him in the kitchen, but it felt right to do something together. Maybe Sid was reading too much into it, but to him, it was like a metaphor for building something new together. Being better together.

"You gonna stay here for a long time?" he asked her later, mouth full of spaghetti. She didn't complain at his lack of etiquette but simply smiled magnanimously.

"Yes. You too."

"You have a job?"

"I'm a shop girl."

"That's nice."

 _No, it's not._ That's what she should have said, would have said. But she didn't now because she was kinder now, softer now, and maybe that was for the better. "Yes. It's okay pay. Things will get good." He wondered momentarily how they had paid for the hospital care, and that in turn gave him another pang of regret. He thought of the NHS, and Britain, and Bristol, and everything they had left behind. All the sacrifices they had made just to find this purgatory.

"You don't belong here, Cassie."

"I don't belong anywhere."

And it was that sentence, glum as it might have seemed, that gave Sid his inspiration. His idea. He didn't say anything to her at that moment – it was the time, then, for comfort and kindness. For being what it had been a long time since they had the chance to be... normal and happy. Or at least as close a parody of that as they could manage.

She cried a little, and he didn't really know what to say or to do, so he just apologised, over and over again. At this point it didn't really matter what he was apologising for. Later he made hot chocolate, and they sat up in her new, creaky single bed, sipped cocoa and shared a few kisses. When they slept he had bad dreams – the bus. Pale faces, indistinct. People he cared about. Not the sort of things he had used to dream of.

It seemed like a lot more than two years ago he had lain on that trampoline with Cassie the first day they met.

The next few days were slow and quiet. Sid had issues, of course, but apparently all bus accidents were different and the damage wasn't as bad as their experience with Tony had led them to fear. They loved each other. That was the easiest thing about the situation. The hard things were that they had basically spent the last two years hurting each other, again and again, bouncing from one short-lived, unhealthy relationship to the next. Love is never as good and quiet as storybooks tell you. It is poisonous, dark, twisted, obsessive, it tastes like blood sometimes and it can be cold to the touch. Oh, so cold. So you need something more than love to make a relationship work, and Sid had an idea of what 'more than love' might mean for them.

Albany was not where they belonged. But Cassie had been right when she had said she didn't belong anywhere, and Sid was beginning to wonder whether that applied to him anyway. Just until Cassie's treatment stopped. Just until they were nearly happy.

 **Okay, so I lied. But the next chapter really** ** _will_** **be the last. Sorry I haven't replied to reviews - they haven't been showing up properly for some reason? Anyway, I hope you enjoyed (or at the very least didn't sigh at the cliche of) that chapter, and I promise you you will soon have your resolution. I'm not always a happy ending bunny, but...**


	7. Epilogue

**My French is super dodgy so apologies, but** ** _voila la finite_** **. I think.**

 **I'm going to answer reviews at the end of the chapter, but thankyou _so much_ for reading this. I can't express how much it means to me.**

"Where are you _taking_ me?" she giggled, trying to pull his hands away from her eyes as he pulled her eagerly, puppylike, along the grassy earth. Of course, she didn't really want him to take his hands away; didn't really want him to tell her where they were going. It was going to a surprise. She was ever so excited.

"Just wait and see."

They stumbled onwards for a while, laughter and the occasional inconsequential misstep punctuating the cool air of early spring. It had been three months since Sid's accident, and they were happy enough, okay enough. He was pretty much completely well now, and she had been getting the mental health help she needed. Nothing was perfect and Cassie was beginning to understand that it never would be. But it was close enough. Close enough for now.

"Okay. We're here." Gently, he removed his hands from her eyes, and she opened them to see - well, nothing special. Fairly high up, but it wasn't a particularly impressive hill. She looked around her dispassionately, then turned back to him with a teasingly cynical tone in her voice.

"Impressive, Sidney."

He looked rather sheepish. "Well, I know it's not much. But I wanted to, like, take you up a hill. Or something. And I went on Wikipedia and it said this was the highest point in Albany." He raised his hands to read smudged, blue writing. "The highest natural point in Albany is a USGS benchmark near the - er, the Loudo-something Reservoir - off Birch Hill Road, at 378 feet open bracket 115 metres close bracket above sea level." She couldn't help but laugh.

"Why'd you want to take me up a hill?"

"I dunno. To be like, motivational and that?"

"Right." And then, the hint of teasing entered her voice again. "So, do we have a motivational speech to go with this _highly_ motivational location?" At this statement, he assumed an expression scarily akin to 'very proud of myself'.

"Well, actually, right, I do. Kind of. I have this sort of suggestion." She raised an eyebrow, but couldn't resist giggling again. "I was remembering what you said about us not belonging anywhere, you know?" He obviously wanted assent at this, so she nodded, although the memory of that incident - and the emotions that had provoked it - caused a pang in her chest. "And I thought, well, you don't want to, like, settle where you don't belong. So we could not settle anywhere. Just go everywhere. All over America. Get little jobs. Just be teenagers forever, and go clubbing, but actually rent flats and stuff and go lots of places instead of shitty dumpy Albany."

"Albany's not shitty and dumpy."

"No, but like, the place we're staying is."

Again, she had to laugh at that. "Yeah." Pause. "How is travelling going to sort out the fact that our relationship is shitty?"

"Well, we're free souls, and all, aren't we?"

"Sid - " But she didn't know quite what she was going to say, so she broke off. His point wasn't particularly good but that didn't change the fact that she couldn't think of a retort, so she just attempted to raise her eyebrows meaningfully, but that didn't really work. "Sid - " And again she was broken off, but not by herself this time. He had kissed her, very softly, and that made her smile.

"Trust me this once, alright, Cass? 'Cause I'm not as dumb as everyone always thinks. And if it doesn't work you can bugger off and run away like you always do, but for now, I thought maybe we could just... run away together. Okay?"

 _Run away together._ Had he (or anyone else) ever said something that beautiful to her? "Okay," she agreed, breath gone a little for some reason, and somehow her hand found his. That was right. That was good. Their hands, like they themselves, always found their way to one another in the ends. Twin souls, perhaps. Perfectly complementary. They were _right for each other_ , she realised in that moment, and the thought comforted her.

"So that's why I brought you here. So you could be high up and look out, and like, see lots. And just think that everything you can see, well, we're gonna see more, you and me. We're gonna see everything, just because we can. So it may not look like much but it's sort of beautiful when you think about it. In like, an abstract way."

"Yeah," she said, and looked at it again, with those fresh eyes that he had given to her, and she saw then all the beauty there was in it.

"Wow, Sid. It's lovely."

 **Maybe the ending was sickly sweet for you, but honestly, I gave them such a rough ride in this story that I just wanted a happy little epilogue. If you'd rather I'd left it bleak, you can pretend it finished about three Microsoft Word pages into the last chapter... ! I also wanted to link it to Pure and this supplies the travelling part if not the... well... rest.**

 **So that's the end of that story but it won't be the end of me, hopefully. I intend to write. Lots.**

 **Thankyou all so much for your support, it's been really lovely to have. And I guess from now on I'll have to reply to reviews personally if I'm lucky enough to get them? I don't know.**

 **mynameislizzie - oh, my gosh, thankyou _so_ much, that was so lovely to hear. So I've done my thing. _Now_ you can have the happy ending ;)**

 **Cuthbert72 - I guess I've already replied to your review via PM, but again, thankyou. As always your observations about Sid and Cassie are so thoughtful and yes, I have to agree. It is sort of horrible that a near-fatality was what it took, but I'm a sort of horrible person.**

 **oldandgray - ... maybe not? I don't know. I'm not the person to ask. Thankyou for your support, anyway!**

 **cassielove - thankyou so much and I hope you enjoy the rest of the story, too!**


End file.
